The Fish, the Juice, and the Suitcase
by Casia Gomez
Summary: After Sherlock fakes his death, he heads to America, where he is attacked by something. Sam and Dean, of course, investigate the incident. Not only do they find a ghost, but Cas in a crate and a few demons. Rated T for mild language, violence, and a hint of Destiel. During Supernatural season 5 and after Sherlock season 2. Enjoy!
1. It's not a Bird

**I don't own Sherlock or Supernatural. All characters in this work are fictional and if they resemble anyone living or dead, it is completely coincidental, along with names of streets, cities, places, houses, or otherwise. Enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock stumbled through the darkness blindly. His left arm was torn, bleeding through his nice suit. He was looking for a house, apartment, telephone, anything or anyone who could help him. All the lights in the alley and on the street were broken. The moon was behind a thick cover of clouds and it began to rain heavily. Sherlock inadvertently smacked into a large, dark window and fell down. He hated that his suit was now dirty.

After going through the trouble to fake his own death, he was still going to die. And it was by the hands of Moriarty. Well, not exactly hands. The hands had long claws. Did that still make them hands? Probably. _He couldn't have been Moriarty_, Sherlock thought. The attacker also wore jeans. James Moriarty wasn't the man to wear jeans. Therefore, whatever attacked him was something or someone wearing Moriarty's face. Not to mention, he smelled of grape juice.

He had never given thought to things like ghosts or demons or something from a religious book, but it wasn't important to him, like how the earth goes around the sun. What was important to Sherlock Holmes was solving the mystery. He wasn't afraid because he was trying to figure out what might have been his last mystery.

And he wasn't afraid at all for another reason. Too many nicotine patches.

* * *

"Sam, I'm telling you, it was just a bird that flew into the window," Dean said, lying on the bed and watching TV. He was very interested in the female guest star.

"Birds don't go _thump_ like that," Sam replied, tying his shoelaces. The thump hadn't sounded quite right. Enough strange things had occurred in their lives that it should be expected that something supernatural had hit their window, but all Dean cared about at the moment was the new episode of _Law and Order_ and the busty victim. Sam knew it looked like Dean was acting normal, but the truth was that Dean was worried about Cas, who was missing without a clue.

"Unless it was an eagle or something big like the thing back in Mexico."

"I wasn't there in Mexico," Sam threw on his coat.

Dean shrugged as Sam opened the door. Light poured out into the soulless, rainy night, highlighting the bloodied Sherlock. "Call an ambulance!" Sam yelled, bending down to take Sherlock's pulse. Still alive.

"The bird will fly away after a while, Sammy."

"Don't be an idiot! He's a human! Call 911!"

Dean flipped off the television and picked up the phone.

Sherlock barely understood what was happening. His head throbbed and he couldn't feel his arm. He heard Dean make the call to the hospital and then rush over, examining his arm. Dean said something to Sam he couldn't hear, but Sherlock thought it was something bad like, "oh, he's dead, all right", but wasn't sure. Before he passed out, Sherlock saw that there was a dark purple liquid in his arm being washed away by the rain.


	2. Too Much Honesty

The next morning, Sherlock woke in a shiny white hospital to see that his left arm was neatly stitched up and wrapped in gauze, which didn't stop it at all from hurting. It also didn't stop him from thinking and telling people what he knew about them.

A nurse came in to give him breakfast, in which he only analyzed her appearance and determined, "You're going through a divorce and your husband won't let you keep the three kids you have, so you've been staying up to all hours of the night to try to do something about it, but with a lack of sleep, you're tired and unfocused, and this morning your boss said that a patient died because you gave him the wrong type of blood."

She ran out crying as Sam and Dean entered, wearing business suits. _Impersonating detectives,_ Sherlock summarized. _The suits probably cost $20 each_.

"Hi, I'm Detective Dean Harrison," Dean said, holding up a badge, "and this is—" Sam held up his own badge, but was stopped.

"Your brother, Sam," Sherlock stated. "And you're not detectives."

The two Winchesters exchanged glances.

"How did you know we're brothers?" Sam asked.

"The way you two carry yourselves suggests no romantic relationship or normal friendship. Usually men don't wear necklaces like that," at this, Dean looked down at his chest, but his necklace was under the suit, "so it must have been a gift. Cousins aren't close, so you would have thrown it away. Parents don't give their sons necklaces, so it would have had to be the last option, someone as important as a brother for you to keep it."

There was a second of silence.

"He's good," Dean admitted. "What about the detective part of it?"

"Detectives could have afforded an expensive hotel in the city near lots of lights so I wouldn't have ran into the window. And your suits are cheap."

"True."

"Anyways," Sam said, "would you be willing to tell us about your attacker?"

"You hunt what attacked me? Interesting."

Sam and Dean looked at each other.

Sherlock continued, "I was attacked by something with James Moriarty's face; Moriarty killed himself a week ago in London. The thing had claws, ripped jeans, and come to think of it, he smelled like grapes."

"Where were you attacked?" Dean asked.

"On Krueger Street."

_That sure is ironic, _Dean thought. A clawing.

"What happened before that?" Sam asked.

"I was walking down the street with my suitcase. I was trying to find the Holiday Inn when all the streetlights popped. It was dark, but when the fake Moriarty attacked me, he was close enough that I could tell it was him. By the way, could you get my suitcase? I left it on the street."

"What's the magic word?" Dean mocked.

"'Please' is not a magic word in any sense, but if it gets me my suitcase, then please."

There was a moment of silence as all of them considered the events.

"Well, thank you for your time, Mr...?" Dean said.

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes."

Dean nodded as he left the room. Sam stayed behind to say one more thing. "Aren't you freaked out?"

"No. The only important thing here is that we find out why I was attacked and why he was wearing the face of the late Moriarty," Sherlock replied, putting his hands together and resting his chin on his fingertips, thinking.

Confused, Sam followed his brother back into the parking lot.

* * *

After Dean dropped Sam at the motel so he could go find Sherlock's suitcase, Sam opened his laptop and began researching Sherlock Holmes, James Moriarty, and the supernatural. He found that Sherlock was supposed to be dead, Moriarty really was dead, and there was no supernatural creature like Freddy Krueger that clawed people and left a purple goo, so he looked for local legends and deaths.

"Find anything?" Dean entered the room, threw a black leather suitcase in the corner, and slumped down on his bed.

"Nothing but other attacks around the neighborhood. And Sherlock's actually a consulting detective from London, and he committed suicide last week."

"What?" Dean sat up. "He's not dead."

"He obviously faked it." Sam clicked on a website that opened up an old newspaper. "Ooh, check this out. 'Local resident Ricardo Garcia killed in accident'. It happened a year ago."

Dean looked over his brother's shoulder. "Lived on Krueger Street, house 2514, blah, blah, blah...found in a bathtub of grape juice?"

"Like the stuff found in Sherlock's arm. He also said the attacker smelled like grapes. But it doesn't explain why he looks like Moriarty, who isn't Hispanic."

Dean kept skimming the page. "His cat had scratched him, he tripped over it, and fell into the tub, which he had previously filled with grape juice because he lost a bet. Man, what a way to go."

"Aha," Sam said. "So he's probably got business to finish with the guys who made the bet."

"We gotta find them," Dean stated.

* * *

"Would someone just get me some clothes?!" Sherlock shouted. "Honestly! I want to leave this dreadful place so I can get on the trail of the supernatural!"

"Sir, calm down," the doctor, a middle-aged man said. "You'll need to be in here for at least another day."

"I don't have the time to just sit around like a freaking cucumber!" Sherlock jumped out of his bed. "And if you were smart enough to figure it out on your own, your wife is a lesbian!"

The doctor checked him out of the hospital.


	3. He's not Dean's Boyfriend

As Sam and Dean walked up to house 2514 on Krueger Street, a familiar British man strolled out, a young woman closing the door behind him.

"Ah, I was wondering when you'd arrive," Sherlock said. Since his spare suit was in his suitcase, he was forced to wear jeans and a white T-shirt that read in red letters, _"Well, Clarice, have the lambs stopped screaming?"_ Sherlock wanted to be back in his suit so he wouldn't have had to wear that hideous thing.

"How did—?" Sam started.

"I find you? Process of elimination. I checked one of the hospital's computers and local legends point to this house, where you two would obviously check first since it was your only lead."

Sam gawked at Sherlock's shirt and Dean shook his head as if to say, _this guy can't be for real_. "What did you find out, then?"

"That was his girlfriend. She was content to tell me who his friends were, how they died, and where Ricardo Garcia is buried. Apparently they were all clawed like I was, but it was more lethal. And there was a picture of Moriarty on a bookshelf; the girlfriend told me they were best friends back in high school and that Ricardo always looked up to him."

The story seemed legitimate enough to the Winchesters.

"Where's he buried?" Sam asked.

"Greenlawn Cemetery. By the way, do you have my suitcase?"

"It's back in the motel room."

"Oh," Sherlock winced. "Could you take me there? I don't think I can stand this...this..._casual_ way of dressing any longer. It's very uncomfortable."

"Yeah, sure," Dean said. "We'll get your suitcase after we're through."

"With what?"

"We have a body to burn." Dean wasn't one to blurt out illegal things like that, but Sherlock would have figured it out one way or another.

"Why would you burn a body?"

"It would get rid of Ricardo Garcia's ghost," Sam replied.

"Fascinating," Sherlock commented. "How could burning a body do that?"

Dean shrugged. "Who the hell knows? We're just glad to save people." He stalked back to the impala like a cheetah stalking an...impala.

Sam followed, Sherlock pursued.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked the consulting detective.

"I'm coming with you," Sherlock answered.

"No; it's dangerous," Dean warned him from the driver's seat. He didn't want Mr. Fish and Chips to chat all the way there and tell them what he found about their lives from the apparent evidence on their jackets or his necklace.

"If I happen to come upon a ghost again, I need to know how to kill it."

The Winchesters considered this.

"Just don't get in the way," Dean revved the car up.

"He's quite unhappy," Sherlock noted.

"Don't mind him, he just misses Cas," Sam headed for the impala.

"Is she his girlfriend?" Sherlock wondered.

Sam gagged, trying not to laugh, as he sat next to Dean, who noticed. "Did I miss something?"

"I'm assuming Cas is short for Cassandra," Sherlock said, buckling himself in the back seat.

Sam went hysterical.

Dean frowned and growled at Sherlock, "Cas is short for Castiel, who happens to be a guy."

"Sorry. Your _boyfriend,_" Sherlock corrected.

"He's not my boyfriend!" Dean floored the gas. The impala screeched on the pavement as Sam began hiccupping.

Sherlock rested his chin on his hands that were in a prayer-like position. He wanted out of the jeans and the dreadful Hannibal shirt. _It would be interesting if Hannibal was a real person_, Sherlock thought. _We'd have so much fun. _Then he began to hypothesize on how these men got into the business of ghost and who-else-knows-what hunting. "Your mother was killed by something, wasn't she?"

"Yeah," Sam said.

"Shut up," Dean snapped.

"I can tell because you have bad manners," Sherlock continued. He never knew the meaning of what a "touchy subject" is or when to stop talking. "So your father took you on the road hunting the supernatural." He relayed to them what made them the men they are today, how growing up like that affects children. When Sam began to engage in conversation, Dean shook his head, thinking his little brother was too emotional.

"Sherlock, you're a psychopath," Dean mumbled.

"I'm a high-functioning sociopath," Sherlock corrected. "There's a difference."

"Sam, please get the duct tape."

* * *

They found the cemetery after the sun went down. Dean was happy to get out, away from Sherlock, who was an alarm clock without an off button. He popped open the trunk and handed Sam a large bag of salt and a small tank of gas. He handed Sherlock a shovel.

"You want me to dig?" Sherlock asked as if he didn't expect to do any work but think.

"Yeah," Dean said.

"I'll get dirty," Sherlock protested.

"No shit, Sherlock." Dean grabbed two more shovels, closed the trunk, and stomped away, looking for Ricardo's gravesite.

As Sam and Dean proceeded to dig, Sherlock couldn't seem to get his shovel out of the ground.

"Problem?" Sam asked.

"How does this thing work?" Sherlock asked.

Dean groaned.

"You have to put your feet on it like this," Sam showed Sherlock the proper way.

He did as Sam instructed, avoiding damage to his expensive shoes. "Ah. I see."

It took less time to dig up the coffin than it usually did after Sherlock got the hang of a shovel. They all stood around the coffin, and the brothers opened it, revealing a decomposing corpse of a Hispanic man in his twenties dressed in a suit. Sam dumped salt and gas on the body and Dean flicked on a lighter. Sherlock took all of this in with a calm composure.

"You don't want to do that, _amigo_," an accented voice came from above.

The three men looked up. He looked like a young George Lopez, not at all like James Moriarty, and he was dressed in a red muscle shirt and ripped jeans. Then his face shifted to Moriarty's then switched back. There were cat claw marks on his left arm and grape juice dripping from his hair like he'd recently taken a bath in the stuff.

"Why not?" Dean demanded.

"I know where your precious little angel is," Ricardo replied.


	4. Sounds of a Violin

Dean waited for an answer from the vengeful spirit of Ricardo Garcia. How did he know about Cas?

Ricardo smiled. "What will I get out of it, _señor_? Will you not kill me?"

"Like hell I won't," Dean poised the lit lighter over Ricardo's corpse.

"But you'll never find him that way."

Sherlock was trying to figure out Ricardo's history and where he got his information, but apparently his method didn't work on the supernatural. He couldn't stand it, especially in jeans and a Hannibal quote T-shirt. "What angel?"

"Castiel," Sam replied.

"Angels exist?"

"Yep."

"And...God also exists?"

"Apparently!" Dean yelled, annoyed at the side conversation. He focused back on Ricardo. "Tell us where he is or you're gonna disappear."

Ricardo shook his wet hair, grape juice flying everywhere. "No way, _amigo_. I'd never disobey my orders."

"Who's orders?"

"Can't tell ya. Do you know why I can't tell ya? I can't tell ya."

_Dean's not going to give up on our only lead to Cas, _Sam thought.

"Will you stop killing people after you kill the last living friend who made that bet with you?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course I will."

"And we still won't know where Casserole is."

"Castiel," everybody corrected.

"Whatever. I'm guessing your boss is somebody like..." Sherlock turned to Sam and whispered, "Do demons exist?"

"Yes," Sam whispered back.

"A demon," Sherlock concluded. "And they have a score they'd like to settle."

"How do you know?" Ricardo asked.

"Your jeans aren't worn by time; someone ripped them for you—forcefully." He thought the jeans had been sliced with a knife. Ricardo had some fear in his eyes like he'd get killed if his demonic boss found out.

Ricardo shifted uncomfortably. Sam and Dean exchanged glances. Cas probably pissed off a lot of demons throughout the years, so it wouldn't be easy to pinpoint who was after him.

"Come on, ghosty boy, tell us who it is," Dean hovered the lighter over the Ricardo's corpse. "We'll let you, uh...live when we kill your boss."

Ricardo considered this.

Sam thought, _since when does Dean make deals with ghosts? Wait, is there something else going on here?_

_There must be something else going on here,_ Sherlock deducted. _Dean doesn't look like one of those types of people. How could I not have seen it sooner?!_

_This must look bad, _Dean thought. Basically, everything he did looked bad.

"Okay. He's over in Lemon, Wisconsin, being held in a warehouse by this guy called...The Trout," Ricardo said. "Now get the lighter away from my body."

"Sometimes I'm not a man of my word," Dean threw the lighter down. The corpse went ablaze, Ricardo screaming and spontaneously combusting. Then he disappeared in a bunch of sparks and ashes.

"I wonder why the boss is called The Trout," Sherlock said offhandedly.

Dean gave him a glare and then climbed out of the hole.

"Maybe he likes fish," Sherlock stated.

Sam got out of the hole and followed Dean.

"Hey! Aren't you going to help me out?! Don't leave me here! Sam?! Dean?! Hey!"

* * *

"Finally," Sherlock announced, admiring himself in the mirror. He was back in his suit. He'd had to climb out of the hole himself and sprint for the impala.

As Sherlock left the bathroom of the motel room, Dean said from his chair, "You happy now?"

"Ecstatic."

"Good. Leave."

"No."

"No? Why 'no'?!" Dean abruptly stood up.

"Sshhh!," Sam mumbled, rolling over in his bed and covering his head with a pillow.

"Because I must help you save Casserole," Sherlock whispered to Dean.

"Castiel," Dean corrected through his gritted teeth. "And you can't help us save him. We're dealing with a demon powerful enough to kidnap an angel. You don't want to be there."

"Of course I do," Sherlock said as if it was the only obvious choice. "I'm the greatest detective in the world. Who wouldn't want me along?"

"Me and Sam."

"'_Sam and I_,' you mean."

Dean flipped Sherlock the finger, jumped into bed, and pulled the sheets over his head to distance himself from the British man.

Sherlock picked up his suitcase and left the motel. He stood outside, leaning against the impala. Stuffed in his suitcase was his violin, which he began to play a soft, sad song on.

* * *

_Why do I hear a violin? _Cas wondered this as he writhed around in a wooden crate, many miles away from the Winchesters. His right foot fell asleep and it hurt like a bunch of pins were poking it. Not only that, but his tie was sliced in half and there was a grape juice stain on his trench coat.

That really pissed him off.

Cas could see that there were Enochian seals written all over the crate; he couldn't escape. So that meant Sam and Dean would have to come save him. His mind kept drifting to Dean. He wondered why until he told himself not to be so naïve. There were some feelings that were out of his control. _Why, Dean? Why must you be so wonderful!?_


	5. I'll Grip You Tight

Dean hated that Sherlock was sitting in his impala the next morning. He wouldn't budge. Dean thought of calling the police, but Sam convinced him not to because Sherlock had faked his death and it was going to stay that way. Seems as though Sam always won an argument when it came to things like this. So, the three men silently drove to Lemon, Wisconsin, which was 666 miles away. Literally. That's what the map said.

They wasted no time in finding the warehouse where Cas was supposedly inside, The Trout doing who knew what to him.

Sherlock had the car version of jet lag and stretched his legs while Sam and Dean grabbed holy water out of the trunk, as well as the demon knife.

"You stay here, got it?" Dean said.

"No," Sherlock replied.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Look dude, we have an angel to save and you're just the brains of the operation. I have the feeling that you'd get killed if you came along to face a trout demon or whatever."

"I'm Sherlock Holmes; I don't get killed."

Dean set down the gallon of holy water. "Gimme your hand."

"Why?"

Without a word, Dean handcuffed Sherlock to the Impala.

"Oh good," Sherlock said, relieved. "I thought you were hitting on me."

As the brothers left for the warehouse, Dean made sure to step on Sherlock's foot.

"You could be a little nicer since I helped you out!" Sherlock yelled.

Sam and Dean entered the warehouse through a creaking door. It was tough to see with no lights on. Sam bumped into a box, which fell, and Styrofoam peanuts encased him.

Dean didn't look happy. "Could ya stop screwin' around?!"

"I can't see!" Sam hissed.

"That's no excuse! Turn on your flashlight!"

Sam picked Styrofoam peanuts out of his hair. "Then turn on yours!"

"I forgot it!"

"That's no excuse!"

"Stay calm!"

"You stay calm!"

The Winchesters couldn't think of anything else to whisper loudly at each other, so they focused back on the problem at hand. There was moonlight that drifted in from a small window on the other side of a warehouse highlighted a man-sized crate.

"Cas, you in there?" Dean whispered, not knowing if Cas could hear him.

"I can't hear you," came Cas' gravelly voice.

Dean grinned. The brothers ran over to the crate, careful to be aware of any attackers hidden in the dark. Strangely, there weren't any.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked.

"I think my foot is being bitten by a thousand fire ants," Cas replied.

"What?" Dean questioned, thinking that his foot probably fell asleep.

"Never mind. Just get me out of here please."

Dean handed Sam the gallon of holy water and karate-kicked the boards on the crate, which snapped like twigs. Cas stood up. "Ow, my foot!" He lifted it up so the supposed "ants" wouldn't bite his foot, but he lost his balance and was going to fall until Dean caught him.

"Don't drop me," Cas said.

"I'll grip you tight and raise you from the crate," Dean smiled, thinking of an ambiguous meaning to "grip you tight". Cas regained his balance and stepped out of the crate.

"That sounds familiar," Cas stated.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Can we go now?"

"Not so fast!" a man's voice hollered, the lights flicking on. The three men were instantly blinded, their eyes having no chance to adjust.

"Grandma, is that you?!" Dean shouted.

"Very funny, Dean Winchester. I can see you brought your brother," the man said. "You ready yet, Sam?"

"For what?" Sam retorted.

"To be Lucifer's vessel."

"Never!"

"Not enough incentive?"

When Sam could see clearly, his gaze fell upon two demons who had a knife at Dean's throat and a special angel-killing dagger at Cas'. He looked around for the man who was talking. "Who are you?"

"They call me The Trout."

Sam glanced downward. "You're a...midget?" The Trout was the first midget demon Sam had ever seen, a man wearing green and red kid's clothing with freckles all over his face. He did look like a trout.

Dean had always taunted Sam about his nightmares, and couldn't help but laugh.

"What's so funny?" the demon asked.

"You're..." Dean couldn't keep a straight face. "This...this is great. Sam is afraid of..." He chuckled again.

"Dean, this is serious," Cas reminded him.

"Everybody shut up!" The Trout demanded. "Sam, you can either be Lucifer's vessel or have these two die."

The Trout looked at one of his lackeys and gave a curt nod. One of the demons made a cut on Dean's neck and the other slashed it down the side of Cas' face.

"Maybe you didn't hear me correctly," The Trout said.

* * *

A few minutes earlier, Sherlock had been trying to find a paperclip or what not to use for his escape. Sadly, there were no paperclips around. He should have thought to stuff one in his pocket just in case this happened. He thought of slipping the cuffs, but that didn't work. There was nothing to help him out. The only thing he could do was...break the handle. Hopefully, it wouldn't require too much to break it.

Sherlock stood back, raised his leg, and kicked downward. The silver door handle broke off. He searched for the key to the handcuffs, which were left in the front seat. Luckily, Dean Winchester wasn't a James Moriarty. After Sherlock placed the cuffs in the glove compartment (which are hardly used for gloves anymore), he massaged his wrists and then headed for the warehouse with a gallon of holy water.


	6. Sherlock the Hero

Sherlock hugged the walls of the warehouse, hiding behind boxes, crates, and other assorted objects. He peered in between a jug of blue antifreeze and a lamp shade. Two demons had knives at Dean's and Cas' throats and Sam was talking to a midget who wasn't even half his size. He guessed the trench coat man was Cas the Angel, since he was one of the hostages. Sherlock gazed upward at a second floor of metal grating, following the end to a set of stairs. While he was silently making his way over and up, he heard conversation.

"Maybe you didn't hear me correctly," the midget, the man who must have been The Trout, said. "You can be Lucifer's vessel just for a couple of hours, or these people can be dead for all of eternity because of you. You wouldn't want your big brother to go to Hell again, would you? Chopped up again and again and again..."

Sherlock ascended the stairs and looked over the edge at the group. Just three demons.

"I don't even see Lucifer," Sam said.

"He's not here yet," The Trout replied.

If Sherlock could throw the water evenly, the demons would burn, giving Dean and Cas enough time to get out of reach. He had to time it right. _Very carefully, Sherlock, _he thought to himself. _One mistake and we all die. _He gulped. Sherlock uncapped the jug and then sloshed water out, going from side to side like a sprinkler. The H2O hit all three demons.

Dean spun around, driving a knife into the demon's head. It collapsed onto the ground with orange flickering light. Cas almost did the same, putting two fingers to the demon's head and light emanating from its eyes and mouth. Sam tossed salt on The Trout, who screamed in agony until Dean threw the knife into The Trout's eye. It was over all in seven seconds.

"Jolly good show," Sherlock commented. "You'd all be dead if it wouldn't have been for me."

"No shit, Sherlock," Cas stated. He turned to Dean. "Did I use that right?"

"Yep," Dean smiled. "Wait, how'd you know he's Sherlock?"

"A lot of angels talk about him."

"Ah," Dean nodded.

By this time, Sherlock had gotten back down to the group. "So this is Casserole."

"Castiel," they said in unison.

"You're an angel?" Sherlock asked.

"That's right," Cas replied.

"What can you do? I mean, I'd like to ask a favor of you." He paused. "It's about Moriarty's network. I need to disband it. Do you have any information on it, and if so, could you send me there?"

"Yes." Cas pulled a notepad and pencil out of his pocket and began writing stuff down. Dean didn't complain because he wanted Sherlock gone as quick as possible. Cas ripped off a sheet and handed it to the detective.

"Thank you very much. Goodbye, gentlemen," Sherlock said, Cas putting two fingers to Sherlock's head and sending him over to the first place on the list.

Dean sighed with relief. "I thought he'd never leave."

"I kinda miss him," Sam said.

"Don't tell me you're a fangirl," Dean complained.

"I'm not a fangirl. He was the first intelligent person I've spoken to in a long time."

"What about me?"

"Eh."

Cas interrupted, "What's a fangirl?"

The Winchester brothers exchanged worried glances.

"We'll tell you when you're older," Dean said.

The three exited the warehouse, glad to be alive.

* * *

Sherlock strolled down a dark street in Russia until he realized, "MY SUITCASE!"

* * *

"Look at all the money in his suitcase!" Dean beamed at a large pile of 100's.

_**The End**_


End file.
